


Leniency

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [18]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Anal Fingering, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Bottom Connor, Boys In Love, But he's working on it, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Discipline, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Fucking Machines, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Massage, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pampering, Personal Growth, Prostate Massage, Punishment, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spitroasting, Tenderness, Top Hank Anderson, Vibrators, You guys they are in so much love - I need you to understand this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Something bothering you?” He calls, feeling a mix of mild amusement and annoyance at Connor’s small tantrum.Connor mutters a response but all Anderson can make out isfuckandtired.Anderson recognizes the tone; Connor is walking on dangerous ground, “Care to repeat that?” Anderson’s chest puffs over his folded arms and Connor takes in the stance for the warning it’s meant to be.He doesn’t heed it.“I said I want tofuckbut if you’re tootiredthat’s fine.” It is clearly not fine with Connor and something dark and delicious creeps up Anderson spine as Connor catapults over the unspoken line he shouldn’t cross.Playtime.--This is part of an ongoing D/s series. Heed the tags.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Brat Tamer [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472171
Comments: 14
Kudos: 173





	Leniency

Anderson moves with the languid grace of a panther prowling recently neutralized prey. He knows his quarry isn’t going anywhere anytime soon and he can afford to take his time to clean up the aftermath of his fiancé’s destruction. He doesn’t want the first thing Connor sees when he wakes up to be the machine that had just taken part in decimating him.

Anderson tucks away the attachments to deal with them properly later. For now, out of sight out of mind is enough. He’s just finished arranging a food tray when Connor begins to stir. He wants to be back in place before Connor fully rouses. He always waited until Connor drifted to take care of more complicated cleanup and aftercare matters.

It hadn’t always been that way. The first few times Anderson allowed Connor into his bed, he’d vacate it shortly after they’d finished. He always took care of him, made sure he was in a good headspace, but he hadn’t felt the need for prolonged cuddling. Not when there were semen and sweat drying into crusts on his sheets.

Anderson doesn’t remember when the shift happened. It wasn’t an abrupt change. Connor had inched his way deeper into Anderson’s blankets until one day it seemed more important to hold Connor until his tremors had completely subsided before starting the usual tidying routine. It felt nice, he’d had to admit. Connor would curl into the embrace and sleep like a rock if Anderson let him. It took Anderson a long time to recognize why.

Connor felt safe with him. Connor trusted him. Connor loved him.

It had been a lot to absorb. He’d made mistakes—ones he didn’t intend to repeat.

So he slips back into the still-damp sheets and his hand is on Connor’s stomach when he blinks open tired, sated eyes. They land on a glass of water Anderson had placed by the bed and he reaches for it. Anderson brings it to his hands before Connor’s fingertips can brush the rim.

“Easy,” Anderson rumbles as Connor tries to sit up without any consideration for his body. They’d put it through a lot. He had to be sore, Anderson was sure of it.

Connor doesn’t bristle as he sometimes is want to do. He could be a right prickly brat if he wasn’t getting dicked down on the regular. It’s what landed him on all fours getting pounded into oblivion that very evening.

He cups Connor’s face as the moments leading up to this replay in his head.

***

Anderson could tell Connor was on the warpath before they’d even left for work. He was snappish, blaming it on their workload. He was short with students and gave one-word answers to Anderson on the entire drive home. Connor may have blamed it on being overworked but Anderson strongly suspected it had more to do with being undersexed. Their lab schedules had been madness and at odds with each other’s hours. They’d been able to do little more than kiss the other hello or goodbye most of the week before collapsing tiredly into bed.

Anderson isn’t surprised when Connor presses him against the door the instant Anderson crosses the threshold to shut it. He wasn’t shy about asking for what he wanted. Not anymore. Still, after dealing with a grumpy Connor for the majority of the day in addition to his crabby attitude in the car, he’s not feeling particularly generous.

He returns the kiss pleasantly enough, but it’s chaste. Connor huffs at him and stomps off to root around in their refrigerator for an early dinner of leftovers.

Anderson watches Connor clomp from the fridge to the counter before yanking open a drawer hard enough to jostle a fork to the floor.

“Something bothering you?” He calls, feeling a mix of mild amusement and annoyance at Connor’s small tantrum.

Connor mutters a response but all Anderson can make out is _fuck_ and _tired_.

Anderson recognizes the tone; Connor is walking on dangerous ground, “Care to repeat that?” Anderson’s chest puffs over his folded arms and Connor takes in the stance for the warning it’s meant to be.

He doesn’t heed it.

“I said I want to _fuck_ but if you’re too _tired_ that’s fine.” It is clearly not fine with Connor and something dark and delicious creeps up Anderson spine as Connor catapults over the unspoken line he shouldn’t cross. _Playtime._

Anderson stares at him for a long moment until Connor’s resolve cracks and he starts to squirm. Anderson lets Connor stew in the realization of what he’s just begun as he loosens his tie. Connor’s breathing is heavy enough for Anderson to hear it from across the kitchen and it muffles the sound of the tie hitting the floor. He holds Connor’s eyes as he works open the buttons at the wrists of his crisp white dress shirt, rolling them in sharp, precise motions up his arms.

It strains across his chest when he sucks in a displeased breath, “I _am_ tired.” He lets the words hang in the air before nodding down the hall, “Perhaps we should go to bed.”

Connor isn’t a stupid man. He recognizes the beginnings of a scene, knows how Anderson prepares himself for them. He approaches Anderson warily, pressing his fingertips to Anderson’s chest. Anderson softens at the silent plea for leniency if not outright forgiveness. Connor knows the costs of disrespect—he’s sought out punishments in the past often enough—but there are plenty of times where he realizes too late how far in over his head he’s become.

This is one of those instances.

Anderson runs his thumb across Connor’s cheek, “The red box, I think.” Connor doesn’t blanch or go rigid, but Anderson sees the wild gleam that spasms across his eyes.

He grips Connor by the back of the neck, “I know your limits. You always have an out if you need it. I love you very much—” Connor’s eyes jerk up to meet Anderson’s fully at the unexpected declaration. The second half of his sentence strikes him full in the face, “—but you are in a great deal of trouble.”

Connor exhales an alarmed sound and if it wasn’t for the tent in his slacks Anderson would be worried he was truly afraid. Anderson doesn’t want Connor’s fear or trepidation. He does, however, require respect.

He plans to remind Connor of this in no uncertain terms. He watches in silence as a naked Connor pulls the wine-colored box from under their mattress. He takes it from him, positioning him onto all fours short-ways across the bed.

Anderson usually took his time readying Connor, teasing him open with pleasing strokes of his fingers. Tonight, it’s all methodical precision as his fingers plunge and stretch until Connor’s loose enough to accommodate any attachment for the machine Anderson desires.

They have several and Anderson is picky about choosing. Connor shivers when Anderson lifts a girthy, veined, and knobbed purplish-red device from the box. He’d nicknamed it _The Punisher_ in his head for good reason. Though not as thick as Anderson, it had enough weight to it to be intimidating. It was the bumps and vibrating power that gripped Connor’s attention, however.

He’d been on the receiving end of it once before. It had been his birthday and he’d asked Anderson to work him over as long as he thought safe.

“Drive me crazy,” Connor had exhaled. Anderson had been keen to take on the request. He’d bound Connor comfortably enough even if he was completely exposed and utterly incapable of moving. Connor hadn’t realized how thoroughly Anderson could work him over inside and out until that day. By the time he’d finished with his fingers, Connor had been a drooling mess. He was mewling incoherent sounds and was almost certain Anderson’s careful control had to be close to breaking.

Connor knew the second the slicked tip of the toy prodded at his entrance that he’d seriously miscalculated Anderson’s dedication to ruining him. He’d sunk the mulberry-colored device to the hilt, dipping it in and out an inch at a time. It had hummed to life and Connor had begun to fight the bindings in earnest.

He needed to get off. He needed to touch himself, to rut against the bedding, to hump Anderson’s thigh for all he cared so long as he came. He’d cried honest to god tears of overwhelmed frustration when Anderson had settled on a vibration pattern that seemed designed to shake him apart. It was wicked, soft, and not nearly enough. It was deliriously good and waves of simmering almost-orgasm washed over him with each thrust as the knobs dragged over his prostate.

By the time Anderson had let him come, two hours had passed. At the end of the first hour, he was writhing in his bindings and begging, screaming for Anderson to fuck him. Anderson had smoothed a hand over his sweaty brow and asked him gently if he wanted to stop. Part of Connor wished he could feel like this forever—every nerve on fire, suspended in a state of exquisite, agonizing ecstasy. He shook his head and Anderson murmured praise and appreciation against Connor’s ear as he resumed wrecking him.

It was by far one of their longest scenes and Connor had been emotionally and physically exhausted by the end of it. Anderson’s fairly certain Connor will be in a similar state by the time they’re done this evening.

Connor’s eyes roll closed at the first press of the vibrator as the dull clack of the machine bounces around in the silence of the room.

He twitches when Anderson speaks, “Still think I’m tired, Connor?” Connor’s eyelids lift droopily against thick currents of lust. Anderson’s crotch is at eye level, a telling bulge pressing against the zipper of his slacks. Connor nuzzles against it, groaning a wordless sound. Affection blossoms in Anderson’s gut at the display even if Connor had been a terror the majority of the day.

“Take me out,” the words trickle down Connor’s spine and he arches against them. It’s sloppy and one-handed, but Connor manages to work open Anderson’s fly and pull his thick cock through the opening. A heavy, musky scent fills Connor’s nostrils and the tip of his tongue wets his lips.

A muted clicking sound registers somewhere near Connor’s ear and then Anderson presses a remote into his hand. He strokes himself slowly, watching Connor shake as the machine’s rate of thrusting increases to something just shy of brutal. Connor lurches forward with each pump as the glistening, slicked toy plunges into him without mercy. The vibrations are strong enough that Anderson can hear them even when the toy buries itself to the base.

“You have the remote if you need a reprieve,” Anderson taps his fist. Connor makes a sound that’s half-whimper, half-groan and he nods in understanding. Anderson grips him under the chin, carefully tugging Connor’s head up to look at him.

“You wanted a fuck and you’re going to get one. Since you seem to think I’m _too tired_ to take care of you myself, you can do that work.” Anderson knows Connor is only vaguely listening, too intent in getting lost in the sensation of the machine stuffing him full over and over.

Anderson’s words don’t register with him until the head of his cock pushes at his lips. Connor swallows him greedily and Anderson has to grip Connor’s shoulder to stop him from taking him in one go.

“Easy, boy,” Anderson growls, his fingers fisting in Connor’s hair. “This isn’t a damn buffet. You get what I give you.” Connor moans, filthy and low around the tip of Anderson’s dick. Vibrations hum down to his balls and it takes every atom of restraint he possesses not to fuck straight into Connor’s gullet.

Watching the rhythm of the machine, he times his thrust. Connor surges forward at the force of the fuck and Anderson presses forward in tandem with the motion. Utterly impaled, Connor drools around Anderson’s meaty girth as the vibrator fills him and works his prostate like a penance.

It doesn’t take long for Connor to acclimate to the pace, taking more of Anderson’s shaft with each thrust. By the time his nose nudges against the soft swell of Anderson’s gut, he’s nearly cross-eyed with need.

“Look. At. You.” Anderson grunts as he bucks into the warm heat of Connor’s mouth, “Gagging for it. Salivating for cock.” Anderson isn’t sure if he’d classify the sound Connor makes as a scream or a shriek. It’s hard to tell with the tip of his dick down Connor’s throat. His fingers have the remote in a death grip, but they’re nowhere near the power button.

Warning pulses shoot along Anderson’s shaft and he bucks deep and hard to spill into Connor’s mouth. Connor swallows and the muscles squeeze the last drops from Anderson’s softening cock. He doesn’t pull out and holds Connor in place by his hair.

Hot breath puffs from Connor’s nostrils as he whines around Anderson’s girth, still thick even when soft. The machine hammers at him, demanding it’s due.

Anderson slackens one of his hands to stroke along Connor’s cheek and jaw, “I want to watch you come like this.” Connor whimpers and jolts of oversensitivity shoot up Anderson’s shaft at the vibrations, “I want to see you fall apart, stuffed in both holes.”

A stuttered wail works its way up Connor’s throat from deep in his gut as white-hot release wraps him in its grip. He wheezes for air that his lungs seem incapable of accepting. His heart pounds to the beat of the machine as sparks burst impossibly bright before his eyes.

An explicative falls from his lips when Anderson finally pulls free of his mouth. He collapses onto his forearms and the remote falls to the floor with a clatter. In the end, it’s Anderson who cuts the power to the machine.

Connor’s breathing is frantic and his heart pounds wildly like a caged, desperate animal seeking escape. He makes harsh, high-pitched sounds, overwhelmed in the aftermath. Anderson bundles him into a soft blanket, holding him against his chest.

He murmurs soft, gentle things. He doubts Connor is cognizant enough to digest any of it, but the tone is soothing. Connor hiccups a hysterical sound and Anderson calms him with a quiet, “I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” Connor’s fingers snake out of the plush blanket bracketing his sharp shoulders to grip at Anderson’s shirt.

Anderson knows what he’s after. He wants contact. He wants soft touch. He wants to know he’s loved.

It isn’t hard to give it him. Shouldering out of his shirt, Anderson tosses it in the vague direction of their hamper. There will be time when Connor is sleeping to clean it up properly. The mess can wait; Connor needs him.

***

“Easy,” Anderson repeats as Connor takes giant gulps of water as if he’d slept under a scorching summer sun rather than soft blankets. His hands tremble when he returns the glass to the nightstand and Anderson frowns. He’d pushed Connor hard tonight. He pulls Connor’s shaking fingers to his lips, kissing the pads.

Connor gives him an exhausted smile, “I’m fine, Hank.”

Anderson hums a disagreeing sound and Connor tugs at his beard, “Stop that.” The rapid return to his playful nature calms the hulking desire to cradle Connor’s body with his own for the remainder of the evening.

That and a loud gurgle that could have come from either of their stomachs. The warm look Connor gives Anderson when he produces a tray of food could revive the dead.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” Anderson has to fight a flush until Connor tears his eyes away to survey his options. He settles on soup first, which is no surprise to Anderson. The salty, aromatic broth sates the initial surges of hunger without overwhelming the stomach. Connor ignores the spoon and holds the bowl like a cup to sip from the rim. Anderson lets him.

The strawberries and two squares of cream-filled chocolate go next followed by a heartier turkey sandwich. Romaine leaves and provolone peek out of the sides and Connor licks a bit of mustard from his thumb.

“You went all out,” Connor mumbles between bites.

Anderson watches him as deeply romantic, deeply vexing emotions simmer on his tongue. Connor watches him over his sandwich, content to wait and munch while Anderson works out what he wants to say.

He settles on “You deserve nothing less.” It seems a painfully inadequate phrase to capture how he feels about Connor, but Connor glows at the words as if Anderson implanted stars in his soul.

He surges forward for a kiss before holding out the second half of his sandwich. Anderson shakes his head and Connor glowers. It was endearing how Connor thought he could be intimidating if he wanted to. Anderson exhales a laugh through his nose and accepts the sandwich anyway. He _is_ hungry even if he just wants to watch Connor come back down to earth, to make sure he’s alright.

Once Connor’s eaten his fill, Anderson pulls him down to lie flat, rolling him to his belly. Connor sighs, content and relaxed as Anderson drags his fingers along the rolling hills of Connor’s ribs, caressing Connor’s skin like a map that conceals his treasure.

“You are my favorite person,” Anderson says into the quiet space between them.

Connor turns his head in Anderson’s direction, a faint smile on his lips, “Maybe you should marry me.”

Anderson touches the gold band on Connor’s hand. A delicate promise that once terrified him and now he couldn’t imagine living without.

“Maybe I should,” he agrees as he massages away the last of the tension between them.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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